Faithful Friends Gather Near To Us
by girl in the glen
Summary: This is the Section VII 2017 Christmas Round Robin. The chapters to this prompt are individual 'assignments' that tell the complete story. The individual writers who contributed to this round robin are alynwa, Avirra, girlintheglen, JantoJones, Mlaw, otherhawk, Rosywonder, selyndaep, ssclassof56
1. Chapter 1

Have yourself a merry little Christmas  
Let your heart be light  
From now on  
our troubles will be out of sight  
Have yourself a merry little Christmas  
Make the Yule-tide gay  
From now on  
our troubles will be miles away

Here were are as in olden days  
happy golden days of yore  
Faithful friends who are dear to us  
gather near to us once more

Through the years we all will be together  
If the Fates allow  
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough  
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now

Chapter 1: Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas by girlintheglen Chapter by girlintheglen

Napoleon Solo had planned his Christmas Eve activities with a keen sense of romance and opportunity. He would call on his Aunt Amy first, and after a decent amount of time would bid her adieu and continue on with the evening's super nova event: Angelique.

He had never spent a holiday with the THRUSH seductress, but this year she had contacted him about seeing her while she was in New York. The unofficial truce that seemed to always occur at Christmas meant that neither of them would likely be called upon, and it would be disingenuous to deny themselves the rare opportunity.

The other extreme in Christmas observances would be that of the Russian agent, Illya Kuryakin. He had volunteered to be on duty at Headquarters this evening. He had no family to celebrate with him, and the people with whom he worked were a pleasant enough group. There would be a generous buffet in the commissary to commemorate the holiday, insuring a good meal and, if he were fortunate, the company of a few amiable souls.

When Illya walked into the festively decorated room he was met with the aroma of turkey, and the sight of accompanying dishes. There was also lasagna, an ode to the Italian heritage of the chef, as well as some borsch and pirogues. Chef Alex knew Kuryakin would be on duty, and determined to have something special for Waverly's second most important agent. The chef also knew that April Dancer would be visiting the commissary and that she spoke Russian. It never hurt to use his cooking skills to impress a pretty girl.

When April did arrive it was with her own partner in tow. Mark Slate was wearing a red turtleneck atop blue jeans, and a Santa hat. The lean profile was in contrast to the imagery of the modern Santa Claus that filled stories and the windows of stores, all filled with dreams and fantasy. Illya was stoic about the commercialism, unwilling to yield to it completely. It did not stop him from accepting presents, however, most of which came from secretaries and support personnel whose perfumes intentionally permeated cards and wrapping. He was entirely innocent of any act of capitalistic entitlement, but he would not judge those whose own aesthetics differed from his own.

One person who did not gift the Russian was Lisa Rogers. For whatever reason, she found herself unwilling to yield to the hoard of women (perhaps hoard was a bit of an overstatement), who had fallen prey to the charmless, blond egghead. Kuryakin was a know it all, and as Waverly's virtual right hand, it was Lisa's job to know everything, everyone and whatever was in between. Trying to 'inform' Illya Kuryakin of something was similar to informing the Pope about the history of the Church.

Tonight her attention would be on preparing for Mr. Waverly's departure from Headquarters on his trip out of town. Alexander Waverly called Lisa into his office for some last minute correspondence he intended to have delivered the next day. Christmas was a day he relished and held in high esteem, a respite from the business he was in. He would leave the Command in the able hands of Mr. Kuryakin and Lisa Rogers for this one night before the job fell to Mr. Solo on Christmas day, but he had this piece of business to conclude before his time away could begin.

Lisa entered when called, anxious for her boss to get a much deserved break, albeit a short one. Her devotion to him was a tangible thing, her admiration without limits. As she entered the big office she was impressed by a sense of unease, a discernment that would be rewarded for its accuracy.

Lisa spotted Waverly as the gas hit her. She caught the Old Man's eye as each of them succumbed to the effects of the noxious fumes, wondering how it had happened as she fell to the floor.

Downstairs, in the commissary, April and Mark spotted Illya and joined him at his table. They were here tonight to serve as escort for Mr. Waverly as he traveled upstate to his country home. His wife and children were already gathered there, assembled for a big Christmas away from the city and, hopefully, the business of thwarting evil.

As the three agents sat and enjoyed their meals, Del Floria appeared in the doorway. He was slightly flushed and looking around the room in search of Illya.

"Mr. Kuryakin!" It was an abrupt change to the relaxed mood, but instantly Illya was on his feet.

"What is it? What has happened?" Floria was excited about something and looked anxious. April and Mark were beside Illya as the rest of the room observed. The conversation was brief, and the four of them left the room at a rapid pace. Some Section III agents followed them out into the corridor and began checking for signs of trouble, calling security but discovering nothing out of order.

When Illya and the others reached the tailor's shop, the television screen used to monitor the entrance was set on a scene not within UNCLE Headquarters.

"What? Who is that, can you tell?" April was searching the images, finally spotting one figure in the center of what looked like a bedroom. Illya opened his communicator and hailed Napoleon.

"Illya? What's going on?" Solo's voice was calm but showed signs of stress. He was looking through an open door that showed the interior of his Aunt Amy's apartment.

"Napoleon, someone has …' Illya was stunned to suddenly see Amy and another woman on the screen.

"Where are you Napoleon?" Why would someone want to kidnap Napoleon's Aunt Amy? Illya was confused by the image of her as he strained to identify the other woman in the room with her?

"I'm at Amy's apartment, but the door is open and she's not here.

"No, she isn't. We can see her on this monitor, and she's with someone.' Illya was dismayed to see who sat across from the older woman.

"Napoleon, Angelique is with her." Silence on the other end lasted only a moment. April and Mark were glued to the monitor, but Illya moved towards the dressing room intending to use the reception desk controls to sound an alarm. Something like a flash made his movements feel like slow motion, and when he turned to look back the tailor's shop was empty. April, Mark and Del were all gone.

Napoleon entered Amy's apartment cautiously, gun drawn. There was no sign of a struggle, the only sign of someone else having been there was a typed page addressed to him and Illya.

Terry Cook hadn't been in New York since the conclusion of the Gurnius Affair. Her photography career had not benefitted at all from that story; she was sworn to secrecy as her film was confiscated and the brutality of what she had witnessed was seared into her memory. She had loved being with Napoleon Solo, the excitement of the hunt and the thrill of being with him. What they had encountered made her skin crawl, and the images of Gurnius/Kuryakin tormenting Napoleon made her squeamish around the Russian. She knew it was the mission, that he had been playing a part, but she maintained her distance from him just the same.

She was in the city at the offer of an assignment, and was expecting to meet the client in the Times Annex on West 43rd Street. The message she had received said to meet on the fourth floor, so she went directly to the elevator after arriving and punched the button to head up. Almost instantly she sensed a whishing noise and then the smell of something sickly sweet. Before she could identify the treachery, Terry was crumpled on the floor of the elevator, unaware when the doors opened and a trench coat clad figure dragged her out and loaded her onto a cart used for mail delivery.

Napoleon wasted no time getting back to UNCLE Headquarters. He decided to take an alternate route and enter through the Masque Room, hoping to stay out of sight of whoever was orchestrating these strange events. Illya had reported the disappearance of the others; Amy and Angelique, April and Mark, Del. None of this made any sense. Napoleon walked through the Masque entry and made a left turn to enter the passageway that would take him to the elevator connected to Headquarters. He didn't think there should be any problems, very few people knew of this entry.

Illya was waiting for his partner outside of Waverly's office, which was where the elevator would open. Another disturbing development would await the now acting Chief.

The doors opened to reveal Napoleon, his gun drawn once again. When he saw Illya it was obvious that something else had happened.

"Who?' He had a sinking feeling what the answer would be, although it was nearly unbelievable.

"Waverly?" Illya nodded.

"And Lisa Rogers." Both men were stunned by these developments, confused by the entire evening's events and worried about the safety of each victim.

Unbeknownst to the the dark haired man in the horn rimmed glasses, UNCLE Headquarters was in a state of alarm. All of the events taking place there were happening without George Dennel. Instead of eating in the commissary, George had opted to accept an invitation from a young woman he had recently met. She was lovely, quite outside of his normal dating circle. Unlike Napoleon Solo, George Dennel seemed at a loss when it came to attracting glamorous, exciting women.

This one was different though. Blonde and very pretty, she spoke with an interesting accent that both charmed and intrigued the bookish young man. George's career at UNCLE was on a steady path, but it lacked the adventure he witnessed with men like Solo and Kuryakin. He sighed as he once again daydreamed of some great adventure of his own.

He could not have dreamed of something like what he would soon encounter.

Back at Headquarters, Napoleon and Illya were pouring over video of the rooms from which their colleagues and boss had vanished. In all instances the images were suddenly immersed in a cloud of something they assumed was a knockout gas. But how had it been placed inside of this building?

"Illya, did you hear anything in the shop? Why did it not affect you?" It was a good question, but one for which the Russian had no reasonable answer. It had seemed to be more of a time manipulation, as though he were moving in slow motion.

''I cannot explain how it felt exactly, only the sense of moving …''

"Slow?" Napoleon got that part of it, but it wasn't helping. Illya grimaced slightly.

"I am sorry to have so little information. I felt quite helpless at the scene of it."

"I didn't meant to imply anything." Now Napoleon felt helpless. Nine of their own… no, eight of their own and Angelique. He had to assume they would all be in the same place, and the note he had found at Amy's held the only clues to solving this mystery.

"Shall we go over the note once more?" Illya was equally frustrated, especially since it had happened on his watch. Waverly had to be found safe and intact. If he were back in the Soviet Union he would have been shot by now for letting this happen. A slight shudder went through his body as he silently acknowledged his gratitude for being where he was.

Napoleon put up an image on the screen in Waverly's office. The labs had gone over the document and made a copy of it for viewing. The original was encased in a plastic sleeve, the clues on the page leaving no doubt as to the author.

Messieurs Solo and Kuryakin,

You are no doubt in a complete state of disarray at the removal of your friends and associates. This is exactly as I had hoped.

You will find these people at an old hotel in the sad little town of Hyde Sink, New York.

I tell you this because I do not fear you, nor do I expect a direct assault.

You must consider whether or not the place is a trap, whether it might blow up!

Are your friends safe inside or part of the trap?

My goodness, what a conundrum.

They will have plenty of time to think about their lives and relationships to you both.

I hope you are worth it, because you may be the cause of their untimely deaths.

You have until daylight to ensure a happy Christmas for them all.

I suppose this will be a Christmas to remember, or one to bury along with your unfortunate friends.

I imagine you are wondering who I am and why I have done this. Well, here is a clue…

And this… **Z**

There was no doubt who had written the note: Count Zark. The man was impossible to get rid of, or so it seemed. Illya remembered the bats only too vividly, he had no desire to encounter them again.

Napoleon was strategizing their approach, wondering if the people stolen by Zark were even still alive. The transmission of Amy and Angelique had vanished from the screen, much like the people they now sought to save from the villain known as Count Zark. His lunacy was well documented, as was his ability to create illusions and seemingly magical effects.

"I guess we go to, what is it again?" Napoleon's brain was racing, his usually steady affect somewhat punctured by the events of the evening. All of these people and Zark at the center of it; but to what end? Retribution, revenge…

"Hyde Sink. I have the directions, and we have back up ready to follow us up there." Illya saw the concern on his friend's face, the realization that others were now in danger because of what they had done to Zark when destroying his lair and the bats who inhabited it. The quest for World Domination was such a common malady among these THRUSH types, and one had to wonder that they should take opposition so personally.

Napoleon had his plan in process, but first they must get upstate to the obscure little town and find the hotel where their friends and colleagues were being held. He could only hope to find them unharmed, and that they would not give up on believing in him to rescue them.

What were they thinking about as they were held by the crazed Zork? Would they be able to find their own way out of his grasp? It was nearly midnight, which meant a matter of hours before dawn.

Napoleon could only hope that this Christmas Eve would lead to a happier Christmas come daylight.


	2. Chapter 2: April by otherhawk

Chapter 2: April

Chapter by otherhawk

April awoke in the dark, head fuzzy and pounding, mouth dry. Her hands were tied behind her back and...she felt around gingerly...she was tied to a large wooden chair. Oh, _wonderful,_ she grimaced. So much for the Christmas truce – she recognised the after-effects of THRUSH knock out gas from the last time. And time time before that, come to think of it.

She had been in the tailor's shop before, with Mark, Illya and Del. Where were they? Had they been taken too? For a long moment she stayed very still, holding her breath, listening for any sort of sign of life. Nothing. Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse. "Mark?" she called out softly, just in case. "Illya?"

No, she was alone, and she remembered that she and Mark had been due to escort Mr Waverly upstate. She ground her teeth in frustration; certain that this was an attempt at getting to him. And she hadn't even managed to catch a glimpse of who had grabbed her, let alone fighting back. Well, there was no time like the present.

Judging by the weight in her jacket her gun had already been removed from her shoulder holster, but that didn't mean she didn't have a few tricks up her sleeve – literally, in this case. She tugged at the hidden seam on her bracelet and pulled out a sharp blade, just perfectly sized for sawing through the ropes. As they fell to the ground, she scrambled to her feet, holding out her hands as she stumbled into the darkness.

Her hands hit against the wall after a few steps, and her nose wrinkled immediately. Crushed velvet really? The velvet gave way to embossed wallpaper and she felt along the wall until she found a light switch and flipped it on. There. That was better...sort of.

Gazing around she found herself in an old-fashioned hotel room. There was a large four-poster bed with heavy green hangings, and the chair she'd woken up on was dark wood, red leather and almost throne-like. The whole set-up looked like it was taken straight from the pages of a Dickens novel. "If three ghosts turn up to teach me the error of my ways, I'm going to scream," she muttered, vaguely threateningly.

The door was locked and barred, and the window was sealed behind a metal plate, so she went through the room methodically, looking for any sort of clue or way out. Funny, here she was on a treasure hunt on Christmas Eve again. When she was a child, her parents had always hidden one present somewhere in the house for them to find the night before Christmas and she and her brother had torn through the house until they found it, then they'd open it under their parent's warm gaze, to the accompaniment of gingerbread and cocoa. In spite of everything she smiled a little at the memory of the joy and excitement. Christmas had been so much...so much _more_ as a child. But then, everything had been so much simpler.

This year she was going to go and see her parents early in the new year. They knew she had to work, and were very proud, and she tried very hard not to let them know anything that she did. She couldn't imagine their faces if she told them that she'd spent Christmas Eve being held hostage in a badly-decorated hotel room.

That was assuming she got out of here at all. She had to find the boys, and warn Mr Waverly.

Determination renewed, she approached the door again and examined the hinges. With a slight smile, she pulled the cutting torch out of the hidden compartment in the heel of her left shoe, and set to work. It took a good twenty minutes, but eventually she was carefully leaning the door against the wall and creeping out into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

Almost at once it opened up into a mezzanine and she looked over the railing to see a banquet hall below, with a large table laden down with food.

Huh. She raised an eyebrow. "Curiouser and curiouser."


	3. Chapter 3: Mark by avirra

Chapter 3: Mark by Avirra

Mark's first reaction to rousing enough to feel his head pound was to wonder what drink he had imbibed too much of. His inability to bring his hand up to his throbbing skull woke him up further. Hardly the first time, sad to say, that he'd woke up in this state. At least there weren't lights shning in his eyes this time.

He listened very carefully for a few minutes to confirm that there was no one else in the rooim, then let off a string of curses the he didn't allow himself to use in mixed company. That out of his system, he flexed his fingers and began to methodically check out the ropes binding his wrists, very grateful that he had taken up Illya's offer to study knots with him.

It took time and patience but there was a surge of satisfaction when the rope finally loosened and fell to the floor. Taking a moment to massage his wrists, Mark then checked himself over to see what had been left to work with. Gun and communicator missing - nothing shocking there. The set of lockpicks in his belt were also missing, but the secondary set hidden in his jacket lapels were stil there along with a few other discrete tools hidden here and there including a thin wire garotte. Taking a deep breath, he rose from the chair, breathing a little easier when that movement hadn't seemed to set off any alarms.

Gingerly taking small steps with extended hands, he didn't have to go far before he came to hanging cloth. A lightly furred feel that made him want to snigger despite the circumstance. The last time he had encountered velvet drapes had been in a, as his Gran had termed those establishments, house of ill-repute. No window behind the drapes but rather a bed. A rather sturdy affair from the feel, so the drapes must be bedcurtains.

Feeling his way around to what he judged to be the foot of the bed, Mark put his back to the bed and started forward again. It didn't take long to locate the wall and a few more minutes found the light switch. Deciding the that darkness of the room meant that turning on the lights shouldn't alert anyone, Mark flipped the switch and again barely held back a chuckle as he could picture clearly what April's reaction to this room would be. Everything in the room was in shades of fuchsia to the point that he was tempted to turn the lights off again.

Now that he could see, the room was quickly searched. Where the window was likely to be was sealed behind a sturdy metal plate and the heavy wooden door was locked. Old homes had always been a source of fascination to Mark and the expensive (if gaudy) furnishings mixed with the age? Mark began a thorough examination of the room's panels, giving a grunt of satisfaction when he found the panel that concealed a dumbwaiter - very popular in multi-story buildings for sending laundry and such down to the basement level.

Examining it, Mark was pleased to see that it was one of the sturdier versions and that, while obviously old, it had been converted to electricity. There was, of course, a dnager of becoming trapped between floors, but he preferred taken the risk to waiting around to see what would happen next. It was not the most comfortable fit, but then again, it was intended to transport duvet covers and sheets, not people.

Taking a deep breath and saying a silent prayer, Mark activated the controls, feeling a little more optomistic as the car began to descend smoothly. Mark had no way of knowing if there were more floors above, but he knew he had been on the third floor of the building as the car went past two more panels before reaching it's final destination in the basement. Fortunately, the opening there was open with no decorative panels between him and the room.

The basement with dim, but not pitch black. A bit musty as all basements tended to smell, but the area, though currently not in use, was obviously still used for laundry. Even better, there was a tool bench on the far side of the room. He immediately headed to it and 'borrowed' a few things to aid in self-defense before moving to the stairs. Wooden, but sturdy as befit stairs leading to what would be a heavily used area. Still, he mounted the first stair carefully, wary for creaks that might give away his location.

Spanner firmly in one hand and other tools tucked into various pocket, Mark slowly made his way up the stairs when he stopped and sniffed. Food? And not just any food at that - he would swear on his Mum's bubble and squeak recipe that he could make out the savory smell of roast goose. Well, he had yet to meet the goose, cooked or otherwise, that he couldn't take in a fair fight - and nevermind those pinches he got from Gran's geese as boy - so Mark continued up the stairs. The door at the head of the stairs was shut, but not locked.

An finger slid along the hinges didn't feel any rust. so he eased the door open. No squeaks, but now he could make out of soft popping and hissing sound. He guessed a fireplace and one not too far distant from the kitchen area he found himself in. There was another dumbwaiter visible and, stepping closer to it, the shaft it was in was where the food aromas were coming from. That led to the easy conjecture that this particular dumbwaiter serviced the main dining room. Taking a moment to put the spanner in a pocket so that he could pick up a sturdy kitchen blade, Mark quietly made his way across the tiled floor and to the next set of steps that, judging from the position of the dumbwaiter, would lead him to the dining room.

With any luck, once he could get his bearings in the dining room, he could find out whether he was in this building by himself - which he highly doubted - or whether April and perhaps Napoleon's aunt and Angelique had been brought here as well. Though for what reason? He couldn't begin to guess.

The next door was equally well-maintained and he stood at the edge of the room and frankly stared. His hearing and nose had both been quite correct. A sizable fireplace was across the room and there was a fire blazing in it. The table was heavily laden with a variety of food including not one, but two geese, both roasted to a delectable golden brown. They were far from the only holiday delights on the table and Mark did his best to ignore his mouth drooling from the scents as he tried to puzzle this mystery out.

First things first - he needed to see if April was here and, if so, was she safe?


	4. Chapter 4: Mr Waverly by alynwa

Chapter 4: Mr. Waverly by alynwa

Alexander Waverly opened his eyes and frowned. He was lying on a bed, but didn't remember getting there. He sat up and groaned as he suddenly felt woozy. After a few minutes, the dizziness and nausea evaporated and he looked around. He was in a large bedroom that was ornately, but garishly decorated in ghastly shades of dark red and black velvet everywhere; the walls, rugs, drapes, even the chairs were covered in it. The last thing he remembered was Miss Rogers entering his office and...

A gas came through the vents! He began to look around the room; the door was locked, no surprise there. There was no sign of his personal assistant and he hoped that wherever Miss Rogers was, she was able to fend for herself. He was more concerned for his wife. Unlike Miss Rogers, his wife was not a trained agent. Considering that whoever was responsible for this had infiltrated UNCLE New York, it was not inconceivable that he/she or they knew where Elizabeth was meeting him and had taken her, as well. I have to find a way out of this room!

There was a vanity against the wall; a very frilly, feminine looking monstrosity with a tufted velveteen seat. He almost walked right past it, but at the last second he saw a pink and black envelope with his name printed upon it. He picked it up gingerly, mindful that it could be booby-trapped. A little lamp caught his attention and he was pleasantly surprised that it turned on when he clicked the switch. He yanked at the drapes next to the vanity which revealed a window that looked out on snow - covered fields. He was at least four stories up and there was no fire escape ladder and though the stone wall of the building he was in had stones projecting out every few feet, he knew he was no longer physically capable of making his way down from there. Bloody hell.

He pulled a note from the envelope and read:

My Dear Mr. Waverly,

By now, you know where you are not; you are not in UNCLE HQ, nor are you in New York City. I have chosen this time of year to exact my revenge against your organization in general and those infernal agents of yours, Solo and Kuryakin! Because of them, I was made out to be a fool in front of the entire THRUSH Central Committee. I became a laughingstock!

Even as you read this, I am sure those two are on their way to rescue you and the others. In fact, I'm counting on it; I have several surprises in store for them. Might I suggest you spend your time relaxing? You're not a young man anymore, Mr. Waverly, I would hate for you to tire yourself out trying to escape.

With all due respect,

Count Zark

"You don't need UNCLE to make you a laughingstock, you crackpot," Waverly muttered under his breath. "I'll bloody well show you who's too old!" With renewed vigor, he began searching in earnest for a way out. As he did, he wondered who the "others" Zark referred to might be. He saw Miss Rogers be affected by the gas and assumed she had also been taken, but could only guess as to the others' identities.

The walls were covered with heavy drapes that he began to pull back as he circled the room. A couple revealed more windows, some revealed walls. Finally, he pulled aside drapes that revealed another door that he hoped might open onto a hallway. The keyhole was a different type than the first door he had tried and looked like it could be picked. He cursed his complacency that made him stop carrying many of the items secreted on his person that his agents carried. What I would give for a lock pick or small plastic explosive right now! If I survive, I will suggest at the next Summit Five meeting that we all start keeping those items on ourselves instead of relying completely on our security details.

He returned to the vanity and began searching it for anything he could use to pick the lock. He harrumphed in triumph after opening a drawer and discovering some old hair pins. He straightened a couple out and picked up the seat. He sat down in front of the door and inserted the pin and began to manipulate it. He was mortified that he had to lean as far away from the door as humanly possible in order to see what he was doing which made what he was doing all the more difficult.

Almost ten minutes by his estimation had elapsed (it wasn't until he had started working on the lock that he realized his watch was gone) before he heard a distinct click indicating that he had been successful in his attempt to unlock the door. He went back to the vanity one last time to turn off the lamp. After waiting a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness again, he went to the door. He listened carefully and hearing nothing, turned the knob.

The room's overhead light was on and the first thing he noticed was a large wooden chair with cut ropes on the floor beneath it and the door to the hallway was off its hinges and leaning against the wall. It looks like another captive is effecting an escape, he thought, Maybe I can join forces with this person. The second thing he noticed as he stepped inside was that this room was also done in velvet, though it was dark green. That madman Zark would choose a location that looks like something out of a bad Vincent Price horror movie!

The room contained an old desk and a quick search turned up an old wooden letter opener, the point of which could probably deliver a nasty cut or stab wound. Armed now, Mr. Waverly checked the hallway and seeing and hearing no one, proceeded down the hallway in the direction of the grand staircase.


	5. Chapter 5: Del Floria by jantojones

Chapter 5: Del Floria by JantoJones

Del Floria, U.N.C.L.E. New York's trusted 'gatekeeper', shook the fuzziness from his head as he awoke. Trying to raise a hand to rub his face, he was surprised to find himself tied to a chair. It was a position he hadn't been in for several decades. Back in his active agent days, Del had occasionally found himself being held captive, but he had expected all that to be behind him once he'd officially retired. Of course, there was always a chance that an old adversary had decided to have their revenge before their final curtain; though it was more likely to be someone wishing to gain access to headquarters.

The room in which he was being held was in darkness, but there was just enough light coming from a small gap at the bottom of the door for Del to make out a few vague shapes. He couldn't tell what they were, but he didn't need light to know that the chair he was tied to, with his hands behind him, was heavy and wooden. He tried to remember what had brought him to whatever this place was, but his last memory was of being in the tailor's shop with Mr Kuryakin, Mr Slate, and Miss Dancer. They had been watching an image of Mr Solo's Aunt, and the Thrush female with whom he enjoyed the occasional dalliance.

Although Del's aging fingers weren't quite as nimble as they had once been, there are some things which, once learned, are never lost. It only took him three minutes to release himself from the rope; something which he was really rather pleased about. Whilst it was slower than it used be, he fondly recalled his younger days, when he could have given Illya Kuryakin a run for his money in the escapology stakes.

Figuring that there would be a light switch near the door, Del walked towards the slit of light. Feeling around the wall he soon located the switch and brought some illumination to the scene. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but the faded velvet décor of a long forgotten hotel room wasn't it. As he'd expected, the door was locked, and a quick sweep of the room yielded no clues as to the building's location. Del couldn't even guess from surrounding buildings as the window was covered with a metal plate. His only option was escape from the room.

Del sat down on the bed, causing a dust cloud to rise up around him, and removed his shoe. He may not have been on active field duty for a very long time, but he still carried a small lock picking kit. It was secreted in the heel of his shoe for no other reason than nostalgia. Del Floria enjoyed his job as front line security for U.N.C.L.E., and it still afforded him quite a lot of excitement. However, seeing the young agents coming and going often gave him a pang of jealousy. He had commented more than once that he would give anything for one more adventure. Given his current predicament, it seemed as though fate had stepped in and granted his request. He just wished he had the weapon which was lying on the shelf beneath his counter, in the shop.

After replacing his shoe, Del made speedy work of the lock. Pushing the picks into his pocket, he slowly pulled the door open and peered out. Deeming it safe, Del stepped out of the room and found himself on a mezzanine, which overlooked a banqueting hall. Somewhat incongruously, given the dishevelled and tired and state of the room Del had just exited, the hall was clean, and brightly decorated for Christmas. The large table in the centre was groaning with a sumptuous festive fare. All that was missing from the party were the guests.

"I wonder who else is here," Del muttered to himself.

He seriously doubted it had all been laid on for him, so it made sense that he would have company somewhere. As he pondered, he became aware of a figure stepping from the shadows of the banqueting hall.

"What in the devil are you doing here?" Alexander Waverly called up to him.


	6. Chapter 6: Lisa Rogers by selyndaep

Chapter 6: Lisa Rogers by selyndae

Eyes closed, Lisa Rogers cautiously assessed the situation. She was laying on her back on a comfortable, and unless she was mistaken, very expensive mattress. Covering her was a fine linen sheet and heavy…bedspread? She moved her fingers slightly—just enough to feel the raised pattern on the soft velvet. A gentle flex of her arms allowed unrestrained movement—excellent—so she made a slight 'sleepy' sound and rolled over to her side.

As she rolled, her nose wrinkled at the small waft of dust from her movement. She swiftly moved one hand up to place a finger under her nose to stop a sneeze, and froze. After a moment, when there didn't seem to be a response, she opened her eyes just enough to take a quick peek.

The room was dark, but one window had a small gap in the heavy drapery allowing just enough light from the dull winter sky to see the room. Looking around the shadowed room, she could make out heavy, dark furniture—dressers, chairs—the usual accoutrements one might find in a bedroom. She lay still for a few more moments, still assessing, but first she needed to see that she was still clothed. With a sigh of relief, she realized she was still in what felt like her sweater and skirt. She was even in her nylons, but her sporty little jacket and shoes had been removed.

Finally, satisfied that she was alone, she sat up and pulled aside the covers, to swing her legs gracefully over the edge of the bed.

And stopped instantly, bending over as her stomach seized. Nauseous and dizzy, she sat still, head down, waiting for the symptoms to pass. As she waited, her eyes adjusted enough to the darkness to see the floor where she spied her shoes placed neatly beside the foot of the bed. When the nausea passed, she slipped her feet into her pumps and stood up.

Unconsciously squaring her shoulders, she walked purposefully over to the door and opened it. It said a great deal about the state of her mind that she twisted the knob for a good 15 seconds before she realized it was locked.

Of course. She glared at the obstruction for a second, before making a face as she automatically reached next to the door to push on the light switch.

Light filled the room from ornate sconces placed two-to-a-wall around the large room, revealing old, somewhat frayed baroque décor. While Lisa preferred sleek, modern furnishings, she could appreciate Victorian and French provincial styles. But, this… The room was hideous, and not just because of dust and neglect.

Although the room was large, it was still stifling and overpowering, with massive yards of lurid, shiny olive green taffeta and heavy velvet used in the full-length drapes and bedding. The four poster bed itself, was massive and darkly ornate. The posts had to be eight feet tall, and was covered with a velvet canopy of the same green to match the green velvet bedspread. Heavy dark gold tassels were hung around the drapes and canopy, matching the crushed velvet upholstering on the chair next to the bed. Even the wallpaper was dark green with gold and burgundy highlights, and to cap it, a fleur-de-lis pattern picked out in dark olive flocking!

Faintly horrified at the décor in the bordello-like room, (and hoping it wasn't a hint of what the near future might hold), she walked around, casually opening drawers to see if she could learn anything. As she moved around, she found herself wishing the room had an attached bath.

My mouth tastes like dirty cotton, and I could really use a face wash!

Sighing, she continued to search the drawers (all empty, and surprisingly clean). That done, she reluctantly went over to look into the old-fashioned wardrobe. As a child, she'd been teased relentlessly by an older cousin when visiting, and to escape, hid inside a wardrobe. Somehow, the door had jammed shut, and she was trapped inside for hours until her mother and aunt finally found her and let her out. Since that time, she had an irrational fear of wardrobes.

However… Courage, Lisa. Mentally squaring her shoulders, she reached over and opened the door.

My jacket!

Pleased at finding her jacket, she took it off the hanger and slipped it on. Walking back over to the massive dresser, she glanced in the mirror, making a few minute adjustments to her skirt and sweater, smoothing the jacket lapels so they lay flat. The brief once-over would appear to be harmless primping, but in reality, revealed that all her 'tools' were still in place.

Confident she could easily leave at her convenience, she took a moment to make her plans.

First, she needed to find out what happened to Mr. Waverly—that was priority! Up to now, she'd been too focused on her immediate situation, but now… I hope he's alright! He's tough, but… No, he's worth more alive, so I need to believe that.

Next, she needed to contact headquarters. If there still **is** a headquarters! If Thrush, or whoever, was able to get inside and plant that gas, well—who knows what's happened. I **have** to find out, and quickly.

She'd have to move quickly. Right now, she had an advantage of not appearing to be dangerous. That was obvious from the way she'd been left everything, except a communicator. While most support staff carried guns, she did not, and today's situation was a perfect example of why.

Early on, she and Mr. Waverly determined that a subtler approach would be better for her position. Lisa was a crack shot, comfortable with firearms use, having grown up and hunted with three brothers since she was 12. Her stint at Survival School taught her how to use, or even create, many different weapons out of the most ordinary things, thus completing her training and making her into an exceedingly self-confident, and dangerous woman—all while looking beautiful. Full stop.

As Waverly's assistant, her dark beauty, along with the lack of overt weapons, beguiled many a dignitary into seeing just the outer appearance (much to their chagrin). The really smart ones were able to see past the decorative and sultry façade. The others…well, Number One, Section One was well able to deal with that…inability to look beyond the obvious. And while her brains were not quite in the Mensa range, she had a special knack of seeing patterns and connecting seemingly unrelated pieces of information, making her the perfect assistant. Her position even fooled those within UNCLE, much to her disdain.

But, fortunately, there were quite a few who knew better. Napoleon Solo was one, and she genuinely enjoyed her occasional dates with the handsome CEA. The man enjoyed the finer things in life, and knew how to show a girl a great time, and was well-read, and smart—everything she liked in a man. His serious side, added depth to the man, allowing her to be equally serious without reprisal. She smiled. Fortunately, Napoleon was no more interested in having a serious relationship than she was.

But, then there was Kuryakin! He saw through her camouflage, and—nothing! He wasn't rude…exactly, but somehow, the man made her want to throw up her hands in disgust, or slap him—something anyway… He was smart—she'd give him that—and easy on the eye, but… It was fortunate that he was as much the professional as was she, or they could never work together.

And, thinking of Kuryakin and working together, why wasn't he here now? He was supposed to take charge of Headquarters with her during Waverly's absence! So, where was he?

Time to get out of here and get to the bottom of this!

She looked back in the mirror. A quick finger combing, and her dark waves fell smoothly into place. Pausing, she took another critical look at her makeup. Nothing smudged. Fortunately, her lashes were dark and thick enough that she rarely wore mascara. No lipstick, but, it would do. She smiled, pleased that she looked presentable.

Someone was going to pay, and pay dearly for this, if she had anything to do with it! Showtime.

Her smile turned scary as she plucked out a hatpin and picked the lock.

Quietly slipping out of her room, she waited a moment in the small recess that held the door. As she looked down both directions of the carpeted hall, she saw nothing out of the ordinary except that instead of the expected rooms across the hall, there was an ornately carved railing overlooking a kind of central lobby or something below. She did smell dinner, and several possible reasons came to mind—all of which made her uneasy. A small sound and glimpse of movement had her press back into the niche.

Suddenly a voice from below barked out, "What in the devil are you doing here?"

Startled, and very hopeful, she walked over and peeked over the balustrade where she spied the dear, familiar face.

Mr. Waverly!


	7. Chapter 7: George Dennell by ssclassof56

Chapter 7: George Dennell by ssclassof56

His eyes peered through the gloom at unfamiliar furnishings. His head throbbed. His stomach churned. His mouth smiled. His date last night must have gone better than he dared to imagine.

Bedroom eyes. That's what he'd thought the moment he saw Anna. Bedroom eyes that batted their long, black lashes at him. At him, George Dennell. He had looked around to make sure. The last thing he wanted was to smile at her and discover Napoleon Solo was actually behind him. No, sirree, he would not have wanted that.

But she had been looking at him, all right. And when he smiled, she smiled back. If there was such a thing as a bedroom smile, she had that too. He was used to friendly smiles. He got plenty of those at HQ. He was a likable fellow, after all. Even Carla's smiles, which he had placed such hopes in, had been friendly, with a hint of patient determination. He pushed that memory aside. Since she was a Thrush spy, her smiles really didn't count.

Anna's smile held admiration and invitation. Her crimson lips beckoned him from across the display of Christmas candy at the grocery store. He dodged three shopping carts to reach her side. He would have dodged a thousand.

One gloved hand grasped his arm, while the other indicated the packages of candy. "I'm paralyzed with indecision," she said. "If you don't help me, we could be here all night."

There was something about the phrase 'all night,' spoken in her exotic accent, which sent a thrill up his spine. He picked up a plastic stocking of hard candy.

"Enough to share," she said. She turned toward the registers, her hand still resting on his arm, and he fell into step beside her.

As the cashier rang up the candy, he removed some bills from his wallet. "Here, let me. Sort of a Christmas present. 'Tis the Season, after all."

"Thank you. You must allow me to return the gesture."

When she invited him to dinner on Christmas Eve, he accepted readily. He ambled home in a happy daze, his own grocery list completely forgotten. He was still in the daze when the maître d' led him across the dining room on the big night.

The first part of the evening was engrained in his memory. He had often seen lovely women in restaurants, waiting for their dinner dates to arrive. For the first time, the beautiful blonde was waiting for him. As her admiring gaze ran over him, he was glad that he came in to work early each day to go a few rounds with the punching bag in the gymnasium. His tuxedo might be off the rack, but it fit like a glove.

He remembered ordering drinks. They toasted the holiday. Her bedroom eyes flashed at him over the rim of her cocktail glass. After that, things got fuzzy. He hoped he hadn't drunk too much and made a fool of himself. Yet he couldn't have behaved that badly, for here he was in her hotel room.

Pale light escaped around the edges of the heavy drapes. It must be morning. Christmas morning. Jolly Ol' St. Nick had been very good to him this year. He rolled carefully onto his back. His stomach did not protest, and his head responded with only a dull ache. He felt ready to unwrap another present. The night before Christmas might be lost in an alcoholic fog, but he'd make the day itself a holiday to remember.

He rolled again, but his reaching arm embraced only air. Dust tickled his nose. He sat up and looked around. He was alone. He threw the covers back. Alone and fully dressed in his tuxedo.

His glasses lay on the nightstand. He put them on, then crossed to the window and pulled open the curtains. Instead of a city street, the frosted panes framed snow-covered fields. He made a quick tour of the room, which looked to have been decorated when McKinley was president. Judging from the dust, that may have been the last time it was occupied.

A stupendous thought occurred to him. He tried the door. It was locked. His heart beat faster. He returned to the window and tugged at the sash. It was sealed shut.

He let out a whoop, then clapped his hand over his mouth. Kidnapped. Him, George Dennell. A gorgeous, mysterious woman had found him, seduced him, drugged him, and locked him away in this defunct hotel. This truly was the most wonderful time of the year.

The doorknob rattled. Was it Anna come to question him? Just let her try to get any UNCLE secrets out of him. Those bedroom eyes wouldn't work anymore. He carefully slid the curtains closed, then ran back to the doorway, his stockinged feet making no noise on the thick carpet. He flattened himself against the wall as a series of clicks came from the lock. The handle turned, and the door slowly creaked open. A tall figure stepped into the room, his face shadowed. This was not Anna.

George struck out with a judo chop. The man grunted in surprise and stumbled forward. George dove at his back, knocking him to the floor.

"All right, fella." George kneeled across the man's legs and held one arm twisted against his back. "Just who are you, and what do you want with me?"

"George?"

Even muffled by the carpet, the soft, British voice was recognizable. "Mark?"

"Yes. Would you mind getting off now?"

George released Mark's wrist. "Oh, sure. Sorry about that."

As George got to his feet, Mark sat up and rubbed his shoulder. "I see you've been practicing."

George plucked at his fingertip. "Well, after everything with Carla, I figured I'd better be prepared. You know, in case you fellas needed me again."

Mark stuck out his hand. "You're needed."

George reached down and pulled him to his feet. "So, how'd they get you?" he asked.

"Truthfully, I'm not quite sure. One minute I was in the Del Floria, the next I woke up here." Mark turned on the nearby table lamp and frowned at the décor. "How about you?"

"Kinda the same, I guess. The last thing I remember I was having dinner with a pretty girl." George wrinkled his brow and said guilelessly, "I should've known something was up when she asked me."

"Welcome to the club, mate." Mark clapped him on the shoulder. "If I had a dime for every time a lovely bird made eyes at me and then stuck a gun in my side…"

"You'd be rich?"

"Easy now," Mark protested. "Let's say rather that my pocket would have a healthy jingle."

"Mr. Slate, report please." The familiar hail came from somewhere outside the door. "Have you found anything useful?"

"Yes, sir, I believe I have," Mark called back, then began to search the room.

"Mr. Waverly's here?" George asked as he slipped into his shoes.

"Yes. And April, Miss Rogers, Del, and who knows who else." He pulled the drawers from the dresser and peered behind them. "We are the guests of some vengeful madman named Zark."

George searched his own pockets and discovered them empty. "Count Ladislaus Zark? Talk about a Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Actually, that was a spring Affair, but I take your meaning." After peering under the bed, Mark stood and brushed off his knees. "Did they clean you out as well?"

"Yeah, they sure did. All except for these." George pulled up his pant legs.

"Sock garters?" Mark asked incredulously.

"They're slingshots. Really good ones too. I was field testing them, you know, to make sure they actually held socks up."

"Perfect. Now all we need is a pop-gun and a bow and arrow."

"I'm telling ya, these babies could hurl one of my shirt studs fast enough to knock a man out. With careful aim, that is." He bent down and unhooked one. "Wanna see?"

Mark held up a forestalling hand. "No, thanks. I believe you."

"Mr. Slate, are you quite finished in there?" Mr. Waverly called impatiently.

"Yes, sir." Mark headed for the door. "Come on, George. There's plenty more rooms to search."

"Sure thing, Mark. Just give me a second to arm this." He squeezed the metal clip, and just as it had in the lab, the elastic stiffened to form a small handle. He twisted out one of his shirt studs. "Now I can cover you."

Mark's cough sounded almost like a chuckle. "Thank you, George. 'And God bless us, everyone.'"


	8. Chapter 8: Terry Cook by rosywonder

Chapter 8: Terry Cook by Rosywonder

The first thing was to find her camera.

The Olympus had remained her most precious possession since it had been handed over to her after her so-called 'mission' had ended. She remembered Kuryakin (she thought of him now only by that name) rather ostentatiously ripping the film she had taken and showing it the light. If only her memories of that time could be destroyed like that. Exposed to the light and then… well perhaps then she'd be happy. But the camera wasn't there to offer comfort. She was alone, and without anything with which she'd entered that lift on 43rd street. Alone in a room which felt completely alien to anything which had come before it.

She could be on another planet for all the clues it gave.

Light. A shaft was squeezing in through a flapping shutter on the window. Not the bright lights she looked for, desired, after that time…. She had walked away after that little adventure, determined to choose assignments which buried what had occupied her every waking thought and dream since she had run up the steps from that fake Del Floria place. The Olympus had captured scenes of wealth and glamour, where flash guns and champagne corks exploded in unison, and talk was loud and superficial and continuous. Days and nights combined in a cocktail of unending celebrity moments, and in quiet moments the addition of a few pills managing to expunge the memories… most of the time.

The window was small; no surprise then to find that on forcing it open and bending back the shutter, she was relatively high up. Compared to Manhattan of course, she was far from that. In the shadowy silence of the room it was becoming difficult to force back the memories. The age of the room, its state of quiet neglect, allowed it all to come rushing back and she found herself suddenly spun round, her back pressing the wall as she forced back feelings of rage and fear and regret.

She had felt an instant rapport with Napoleon Solo. Now, as it all rushed back, it was his eyes which she remembered most vividly. Through it all, they had remained, as she saw them, the kind of brown that invited one to come close and feel safe. A momentary shiver passed through her body. Walking forward, she edged towards the shadowy door on the other side of the room, fighting the accompanying memory which insisted on placing itself next to that of Napoleon's languid, comforting presence. Kuryakin's eyes had been altogether different. She had blamed the metal framed glasses, the role he had played, anything which explained why she remained scared of him. When it was all over she had looked at him and wondered whether underneath the exterior layer of the man, there was another hiding, waiting to be loved.

Her body, in thrall to her mind, was refusing to move faster than a painfully slow shuffle across the room. She forced herself to stare at the door, as if just by looking at it, it might oblige her by opening. A slight change of light under the door, followed by an almost imperceptible scuffling movement and then finally the turning of the door knob, rooted her to the spot. It was a door which she reasoned would creak, but it did not. In the gloomy corridor now revealed by the open door, a spectral figure slid into view.

For a fraction of a second she remembered Kuryakin ordering her to scream. Up until then she had thought screaming was for little girls and people on horror show rides. The events leading up to her enforced scream had defined horror in her up until then rather sheltered life. Then, as now, she had felt rigid, sick shock rather than a need to shout the house down. After what seemed like several ages, she managed to force her mouth into speaking. But all that came out was a long slow, desperate scream of despair.


	9. Chapter 9: Amy & Angelique by mlaw

Chapter 9: Aunt Amy and Angelique by mlaw

Chapter Text

When Angelique La Chien awoke, she found herself in strange surroundings, not only because she didn't recognize them at all but because of the style of decor. She always tried to envelop herself with the finer things in life, and thanks to her more than generous income from T.H.R.U.S.H. she lived a more than comfortable lifestyle.

Her New York apartment overlooking Central Park was one of just a few homes that she had around the world; each was tastefully decorated to suit the surroundings.

But this.. .this room in which she found herself was absolutely ghastly. What could Napoleon have been thinking?

She last recalled waiting at the 21 Club for him to arrive.

Having been offered champagne, she accepted it of course and settled into a comfy high backed chair by the fire in the Bar Room. Apparently Napoleon was a special customer at this restaurant and had arrangements in place for her. As usual he was late but she didn't mind one bit as he'd left instructions with the maitre d' Louis to take care of his special guest.

The man was attired in a tuxedo and was was wearing a pair of white gloves and sprig of holly pinned to his lapel; he looked quite festive, as did the club. It was gaily decorated with fresh wreaths, strands of garland and dozens of brilliant red poinsettias and arrangements of white lilies. Everything was sparkling with tiny twinkling white lights. The look and feel of the place actually opened up that soft spot in Angelique's heart as she did have a fondness for Christmas.

For a brief moment, the champagne, the warmth of the crackling fire and the decorations made her mind drift back to when she was a little girl as he would dream of Père Noël and the gifts he would bring her. That made her smile as she sipped from her second glassful of that wonderful champagne and nibbled from a small plate of hors d'oeuvres on the nearby table.

She tried shaking herself free of her sentimental feelings, reminding herself of the lovely evening that lay ahead with Napoleon Solo. Dinner, drinks and then off to a high class hotel where they would make passionate love to each other through the night. Napoleon was never a disappointment when it came to that nocturnal activity.

Those thoughts were driven away when she began to feel a bit dizzy.

That was the last thing she remembered until she woke up in this place...

Angelique found herself in a bedroom, but it looked as though it belonged to a Victorian bordello rather than a ritzy New York hotel. It was decorated in the most vile way with more crushed red velvet that she'd seen in her entire life. To top it off, there was a bawdy nude portrait in an alcove above a settee. How crude!

Looking down at herself, she was still dressed in her sparkling black dress. She'd chosen it just for the occasion, as it had a long sash and a large bow on the shoulder. In a way it made her look like a present all ready for Napoleon to unwrap later in the evening.

Given it was the holiday season, and the annual unofficial truce between THRUSH and UNCLE, she thought it would be a perfect occasion to enjoy the company of her favorite spy and lover. She called him to let her know she'd be in town, and Napoleon of course, obliged with an offer of dinner and other delights. He told her he had a special evening planned for them, given it was Christmas Eve.

But this, she continued to stare at her surroundings, was not what she'd consider special at all. 

Angelique was so aghast as she surveyed the room that she missed something or rather someone very important there in the bed with her.

A moan came from beside her, forcing the THRUSH agent to quickly snap her head round.

"Solo, if this is your idea of a romantic setting you have something coming to you!" She snarled.

"Excuse me madam, but what the devil are you talking about, and why are you addressing me?" The person sat up beside Angelique. " I most certainly don't know you and I'm sure you don't know me."

An older, perfectly coiffed white haired woman stepped from the bed; she was dressed in a chic pastel gypsy like gown. It was long sleeved, richly embroidered with gold thread and graduated from peach on the bodice to pale yellow and green as the pattern continued down the long skirt.

"I don't know you," Angelique slithered from the bed like a graceful snake, ready to strike, as she reached for her gun. Alas, it seemed she'd been relieved of her pistol that should have been nestled in a holster on her thigh, just beneath the skirt of her tight black dress.

"You called me Solo, and that's my name...well it's actually Dupree which is my late husband's name, but I was born a Solo."

Angelique cocked her head to one side, eyeing the woman, thinking it couldn't be?

"You wouldn't happen to be related to a Napoleon Solo would you?"

"He's my nephew…oh good Lord, don't tell me you're one of his girlfriends?"

"Girlfriend? Hardly."

"Then who in blazes are you and how do you know my Napoleon?" Aunt Amy confronted the strange woman without a hint of fear in her voice.

Angelique laughed aloud, "I'm not so sure you'd really like to know that."

"Try me blondie," Amy snapped.

"Who are you calling blondie old woman?"

"I can't believe my Napoleon would go out with the likes of you and don't call me old woman! I could run rings around you anyday you bleached blonde hussy."

"If you weren't an old...why I'd,"Angelique finally came to her senses rather than let the shouting match escalate any further. "We need to save this for later. Firstly, do you have any idea where we are?"

"This is your bedroom isn't it; you look like you belong here."

"Look Miss Solo...what's your first name?"

"Amelia but I go by Amy."

"Well Amy darling, my name is Angelique La Chien and let's say your nephew and I are old friends, though we sometimes work together under the ummm, right circumstances. This is most certainly not my boudoir, nor my taste in furnishings. I suspect we've been kidnapped, but as to why, I have no idea.

"You work for U.N.C.L.E. then?"

"Oh you know about that then...and to answer your question...I don't. " She daren't mention T.H.R.U.S.H. just in case." I take it you do not know how you got here either?"

"No I don't. I was at home waiting for Napoleon to arrive. He'd promised to stop by and have a Christmas Eve drink with me before left for his big date, which I presume was to be with you."

"Oh such a clever deduction darling."

Amy huffed at the platinum blonde's flippant attitude.

"At the moment, I suppose that really doesn't matter, as I think we need to get out of here, where ever 'here' is,"she retorted. Amy was closer to the door and taking a final step towards it, she grabbed the knob and attempted to turn it.

"Don't be so dense; of course it's locked,"Angelique snickered." Now if you'll move aside and let a professional have a try."

Angelique moved Amy out of the way with a gentle shove. While doing so, she was digging in her hair for something, but not having much success.

"Looking for one of these?" Aunt Amy held up a bobby pin. "I'd be shocked if you could find one in the teased up rat's nest of a hairdo. Now if you move aside and let a real professional take care of it."

This time it was Angelique who was given a curt push to the side.

Aunt Amy inserted the bobby pin in the lock and with a click-click, it opened. She turned the doorknob and gestured with a sweep of her hand.

"After you Miss La Chien… by the way, I taught Napoleon."

"Just like a Solo," Angelique mumbled. "After you darling, I insist, age before beauty."

"You're just snarky aren't you?" Amy replied."What my nephew sees in you, I'll never know."

The two women emerged into a long corridor; the floor covered in what looked like rich Persian carpeting. The walls were lined with potted palms and on either side were more doors. They daren't knock to see if anyone was there as inside might be the person who'd kidnapped them.

Together they tiptoed to the end of the hallway where it opened up to a balcony. Leaning on the railing, Aunt Amy received quite a surprise.

"Oh goodness gracious," she exclaimed at the sight below.

There standing around a long and festively decorated banquet table filled with sumptuous foods, stood Alexander Waverly.

Surrounding him were April Dancer, Mark Slate, George Dennell as well as Waverly's assistant Lisa Rogers, that nice man Mr. Del Floria and another young lady with short hair ginger that Aunt Amy didn't know.

Angelique quickly stepped back out of sight when she saw the gathering.

"I should have known, an UNCLE trap," she hissed.

"A trap?" Aunt Amy asked."Dearest, if that were the case, why the devil would I have been locked up with the likes of you? And where is my Napoleon and Illya too? Something very odd is going on here."

"Must you mention that dreadful Kuryakin? He's a filthy Russian pig!" Angelique whispered with a fair amount of venom in her voice.

"Illya Kuryakin? How dare you speak of him in such a way. He's one of the kindest and the sweetest young men that I've ever met. If I were forty years younger…" Amy's cheeks blushed at that unfinished sentence.

"Amy Dupree? Aunt Amy?" April called out. "Is that you?"

"Yes dearest, though I'm not alone." She grabbed Angelique by the arm, and pinching it, she pulled her forward for all to see.

"Ow! Let go of me!"

"We were locked in a dreadful room together and just managed to escape right now. What sort of place is this...it looks like a house of ill repute,"Amy called out.

"What the deuce?" Waverly said upon seeing the THRUSH agent. Recovering from his surprise he continued to speak, "Well to paraphrase the great bard, I suppose that all the world's a stage and I suspect we men and women are merely the players as this performance unfolds."*

"Yes sir," April agreed," but I wonder who's going to make their exits and if there's anymore entrances."*

"And one man in his time plays many parts," the heavily accented voice of Count Ladislaus Zark emanated from a speaker that lay hidden in the centerpiece on the banquet table.*

At the sound of Zark's voice the fireplace roared to life as did the holiday decor. Lights on the garland strung across the intricately carved mantle twinkled and as did nearby Christmas trees. It was an incongruous setting, given the situation in which these people found themselves...

* paraphrasing lines from Shakespeare's "As You Like it."


	10. Chapter 10: In The End We All

Chapter 10: In The End We All Will Be Together by girlintheglen

Chapter Text

Headquarters was in lockdown status, guns were loaded with mercy bullets and anxiety was hidden behind a grim determination to not let the enemy succeed.

Napoleon and Illya were already on the road, heading north to the location specified in Zark's note. One loose end had been tied to the chain of events before they left Headquarters; a tech from the labs was found unconscious, his clothing tinged with the gas now identified as the means by which the missing were rendered unconscious. It appeared that the man, Lucas McGill, was recently hired after graduating with honors from…

"The University of the Ozarks. Isn't McGill the name of that young woman from the Bat Cave Affair?" Illya was visualizing the woman, Clemency McGill, causing a shiver to run down his spine as he was drawn back to the cave and the feel of bats swarming around his head.

Napoleon's brow creased in concentration, a sudden rush of memories coming back to him, of her and the combination of innocence and manipulation she wielded so effectively. Something about that affair had never seemed completely resolved.

"Do you think there's a connection?" The question was met with an elaborate roll of the Russian's blue eyes, an answer that Napoleon agreed with.

"Okay then, so if this McGill from Section VIII is related somehow to Clemency McGill, and Zark is responsible for abducting our friends and colleagues…' Napoleon let that hang in the air for a moment.

"Was she always part of the plan?" Both men were silent as each one relived the events and people, remembering words and phrases that might be a clue to what had truly gone into such a calculated intrusion.

"We thought Transom and Zark were manipulating Clemency, but is it possible that she was willingly a part of it? She was so …"

"Innocent?' Illya clucked his tongue at the idea now of the homespun act that Clemency had perfected for them. Although, Zark had maintained the girl's ignorance of his scheme.

"Perhaps she was innocent, at the time. But how do we explain this coincidence of our perpetrator having the same last name as hers?" That last observation made both men pause again in their conversation.

Napoleon had liked Clemency enough to lead her on in hopes of gaining as much information from her as was possible. Illya was missing and she seemed reluctant to divulge her messages concerning him.

"She was jealous of you, you know." He remembered her little tantrum when Napoleon had inquired about his friend, her annoyance at not being the sole recipient of his attention.

Illya was not surprised at the revelation, he had not been entirely convinced of her act. He had been entirely annoyed at the way she mispronounced his name, almost as though on purpose.

"I think our Miss McGill might have been affected by all of those signals her brain had to process. I wonder that it didn't cause some sort of permanent damage." Napoleon hadn't considered that, he consigned himself at times to ignorance on subjects in which his partner excelled. It was unnecessary to duplicate the interest or the science of it on his part.

"Do you really think so? Is it possible that Zark somehow continued to influence her? That would be … tragic." A sudden surge of sympathy forced its way into Napoleon's attitude towards Clemency. The girl had been duped in so many way, in spite of her willingness to try and persuade him to court her, as she put it.

The miles rolled past as the two men considered this new theory. If Clemency had been able to convince her cousin to engage in sabotaging Headquarters then her powers of manipulation were considerably increased. New members to the Command were thoroughly vetted, their backgrounds checked and re-checked. Someone had missed the relationship, and therefore the possibility of a problem.

And there was a problem, although the events looming ahead were of greater concern now.

The old hotel rose above the other buildings in the forgotten town of Hyde Sink, ancient looking spires creating a look of doom that seemed realized in abandoned storefronts and shuttered windows. Napoleon and Illya drove into this dreary environment and parked in front of the building where they hoped to find the missing; there seemed to be no advantage to a stealthy approach.

"Zark most probably has sensors installed, or cameras. I had no success sneaking into his lair during the last encounter with this madman." Illya had endured no only the bat cave itself, but a round of treatments afterwards for the bites he had received *. The memory of it still sometimes manifested in a recurring nightmare, one he had not yet shared with the resident shrink. The thought of it now made his skin crawl.

Napoleon sat very still, his mind calculating and reassessing the situation at hand. He and Illya needed to get into this place and find every person Zark had stolen away from Headquarters. He was expecting the worst, and hoping for a Christmas miracle as well. Living constantly with that type of a dichotomy of thought made him an excellent strategist, always considering every option. As he thought through the various scenarios, what he was about to encounter was not among them.

The men checked their individual arsenals, set the homing device on the dash of the car and opened their doors, ready to enter into this bizarre situation. Zark's choice of venue was a fitting one for his performance, the pseudo vampirish character he chose to inhabit. There was no end to the insanity of THRUSH's stable of power hungry villains it seemed.

The hotel door opened to them as they approached, a loud creaking sound adding to the drama. Once inside they found the lobby well lit and festooned with Christmas garlands and a tree that glowed with scores of colored lights, a completely incongruous sight to the agents' expectations of gloom and … well, Zark.

There was a hallway just past the reception desk, well lit and also festooned with typical Christmas decor. It was puzzling, this apparent attempt to create something akin to holiday celebrations. Neither man could fathom why someone like Zark would go to the trouble while holding UNCLE employees for ransom, or whatever it was his scheme sought to achieve. The note had contained an ominous threat concerning the lives of those he now held, although it did not specify what, exactly, he wanted from this situation.

As Solo and Kuryakin walked each man was thinking through the details of the note, of this hotel and the absurdity of being greeted with all the trappings of Christmas.

Inside the banquet hall each person who had been brought to the hotel sat at a well appointed table, with glistening crystal and fine china at each place. The table was laden with a sumptuous feast, all of it delivered by a series of peculiar looking people dressed in red satin, presumably for the holiday table that looked suspiciously like Christmas dinner.

Zark was seated at the head of the table, his smile resembling a cartoon character, although no one could discern the expected devilment, as Alexander Waverly had put it. Why they were each sitting at this table was still a mystery, but no one doubted that Napoleon and Illya were on their way here and that the situation would soon be sorted out.

Zark looked at the table and was satisfied that his party would soon begin in earnest. His first order of business would be to welcome his guests.

"Good evening,' the line was delivered without apology for the obvious. Mark almost laughed out loud as he remembered that line from the classic Dracula film with Bela Lugosi.

"I know you are all wondering why you are here, and as soon as our special guests arrive it will be my pleasure to inform you." The smile never left his face, and the terror of it elicited a cry from Terry Clark. She had endured too much in the company of UNCLE agents, and now this. In the midst of her agony, however, she did silently wish for her camera to be returned to her, because this was a story if ever there was one.

"Please Miss Clark, you are in no danger from me. And because of your profound talents as a photographer, I consider you a very special guest tonight." That comment both stunned and comforted her; she was going to get her camera back after all.

April was more curious than scared, and as she looked around the table she noticed not two, but three empty chairs. Who else was coming besides Napoleon and Illya? She nudged Mark, who was seated beside her, and whispered in his ear. That did not go unnoticed by Zark, whose smile still remained plastered onto his face.

"Miss Dancer, you have no need to whisper. Do you have a question for me? I am your host, you have nothing to fear." April doubted that was true, but decided to ask him about the empty chair.

"I know that Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin are on their way, you wouldn't have kidnapped all of us without it being about them. But there is a third chair still empty. Who is it for?" Zark's smile took on a slightly wistful aspect, as though he had a thought tempering his facial expression.

"Ah, that is something of a surprise."

Waverly huffed at that response. He was thoroughly outdone with this entire affair, and missing Christmas Eve dinner with his family was not a thing to pass over lightly.

"You, Mr. Zark…"

"Count Zark, but please, continue." Waverly huffed again.

"Count Zark, this has gone on quite long enough. We all have things to get to this evening and since you seem to have no ill tidings for us, you will please explain the nature of this abduction." The Old Man was getting hot with ire and ready to take action if the answer didn't suit him. His wife would have his hide for missing Christmas Eve.

Everyone at the table held a collective breath. What if Zark did have ill tidings, as Waverly had put it? What if…

The doors to the banquet room opened, framing the men everyone was waiting to see arrive and settle this conundrum. Napoleon and Illya looked into the room and then at each other. The aromas were intoxicating to the Russian, and the sight of those seated a relief to Napoleon. He saw Terry Clark and wondered why she should be here, but settled on Zark at the head of the table.

"Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, please come in. Your seats are waiting for you and dinner is ready to be served." Illya was willing to eat first and ask questions later, but Napoleon was too curious and annoyed to wait any longer for explanations.

"Zark…" Waverly winced slightly, knowing what would come next.

"Count Zark, if you don't mind Mr. Solo." The smile remained.

"Count Zark, why are we here? And since when do you celebrate Christmas?" The room was suddenly full of music as Pachelbel's Canon began to play. The mood changed instantly as the soothing strains of the music triggered a change in the lighting; The house lights went down as the ceiling was covered in tiny white lights that created a canopy over the reluctant diners. The double doors at the far end of the room opened to reveal a woman dressed in a diaphenous white dress, a crown of red roses atop her head.

"Clemency?" Napoleon's voice was a whisper, his eye unbelieving at the sight of her. Illya was likewise stupefied at this new development, although his opinion of her was now justified somehow as he watched her head towards Zark, an identical smile on her face.

The entire room watched the entrance of the woman in white, a new wave of confusion filling each of their minds as they considered a variety of reasons for this scene. Zark looked euphoric, his hand outstretched to Clemency as he guided her to the chair on his right side.

"Please welcome my beautiful Clemency, the future Countess."

For a few seconds it was though time stood still, not a word or whisper; a pin would have sounded like an explosion in this room. But then everyone was talking, asking questions and demanding answers. Zark looked puzzled by the outburst, but Clemency was reserved and serene looking. Illya thought she might be drugged, but Napoleon knew better; Clemency and Zark were in love.

"Is this a wedding we are attending?" Zark and Clemency looked into each other's eyes, adoring and sweet.

"Yes, finally we have the secret out of the proverbial bag, Mr. Solo. Well done. I have forgiven all of you and brought you here to witness my ultimate joy and happiness." This brought another round of questions. In the midst of it Angelique stood and raised her glass.

"Count Zark, I never thought I'd see the day darling, but I salute you. Cheers!" No one joined her, but Angelique didn't care. These were UNCLE agents and Zark was one of her own.

"My dear Angelique, I especially wanted you here to join me in my happiness. I could not imagine anyone more suitable as Mr. Solo's date for the occasion. As for Mr. Kuryakin, I fear I could not think of anyone capable of pleasing you dear boy. You must look for love, and soon." Illya colored slightly, but it was difficult to tell if it was embarrassment or anger.

Waverly was on his feet now, impatient to get on with things.

"All right then, you have us here, so what comes next? Why are we here and when are we going to be free to leave?"

Zark realized now that his guests were not going to simply accept his gesture of reconciliation without specifics of his plan. Very well…

"Mr. Waverly, you are here to give away the bride. Her own father is gone and you are the most respectable man I can think of. As I mentioned, Miss le Chien is here as my special guest and to accompany Mr. Solo. His aunt Amy is for the benefit of my Clemency, a wise and mature woman to counsel her before she says her vows."

Amy smiled to herself and allowed a tinge of excitement at the thought of being brought into one of Napoleon's escapades. She could endure Angelique, in spite of some obvious misgivings about the woman.

Zark paused, thoughtful as he prepared to continue.

"Miss Dancer, you are a bridesmaid, as is Miss Rogers. You do not know Clemency, but I could think of no one to better represent her, your reputations are your qualifications. And Mr. Slate, I need a groomsman." Mark and April exchanged amused looks, the earlier sense of danger was not completely dissolved as they listened to the love struck count.

"Miss Clark, you are an excellent photographer, perhaps our most valuable guest this evening. I apologize for the methods by which we have secured your services, but I needed the best." Terry was dumbfounded by the compliment even as she formulated a response to this outrageous behavior. She had been so scared as she waited in the room upstairs, all alone and thinking the worst. When she heard the voice from the hallway her instincts roiled into one long shriek, only to discover Mark Slate was speaking to her. Her nerves were frayed and she wished fervently for a shot of whiskey.

"Mr. Del Floria, you sir are not only a former UNCLE agent, you have the skills of one who can tailor and do alterations. Clemency's dress is a work of art, but your expertise is a safeguard, should anything need altering.

George Dennell was sitting next to Angelique, still wondering why he was present. The answer was forthcoming.

"Mr. Dennell, you are a kind and enthusiastic young man, and will also be a groomsman. Your sense of honor is a valued characteristic, and I hope to be influenced by it. Somehow…' Zark paused as he reflected upon this turn of events and the people he was enlisting on behalf of Clemency and himself. If THRUSH were to discover him now it would be the end of him. Clemency had changed everything, a sort of miracle, if one believed in such things.

"Somehow, in spite of the life I have lived previously, and the lust for power that drove me, I find myself here among those who were previously my enemies, hoping that there is enough forgiveness and mercy on this of all days, to allow this transformation to be completed."

Napoleon was dumbfounded, unsure whether to believe any of this was actually happening. Illya was likewise dubious, but both men observed in their former nemesis a sincerity that they didn't believe was false. For her part, Clemency was beaming, just like a bride was expected to beam. Her hair was longer now, flowing from beneath the rose garland she wore. Of course they wondered if there was another circuited gadget among the flowers, but something made them accept what they were witnessing as true.

"Clemency, how did this happen?" Napoleon felt the need to address the woman at Zark's side, to hear her affirm this bizarre romance. She smiled and turned to look adoringly at Zark, then replied to the man she had once thought of as someone she might love.

"Mr. Solo, I can't even imagine what y'all must think of me, but truly this is the man I love. After I went back home, it was just so … well, truth be told, I was awfully bored. That little town and the people in it just couldn't compare to what I'd seen in the big city. So, I got on a bus and headed to Atlanta, hoping to find a job and live a life that had more to it than jam and biscuits, and local folk talkin' about the weather. Seems your city ideas rubbed off a little.'' Clemency looked around the room and then turned her attention again to Zark. He seemed to be hanging on every word she spoke. She reached towards him and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand before continuing.

"Well, wouldn't you know that after findin' that job I wanted and a nice little apartment, who should I run into but my darlin' Lad. He came into the store where I was working as a clerk, and of course we both recognized each other. But he wasn't dressed, you know, like that other count feller. Instead, well he was handsome, and sweet. I thought maybe he was a lookalike, but no indeed; well, he was the man I remembered, only different."

Now it was Zark who reached out to touch Clemency, taking her hand and squeezing it affectionately. By this time Napoleon and Illya had taken their seats, surrendering to whatever it was they were witnessing.

"Well, I tell you what, it didn't take long to see this man had changed his ways, and before long … ' More loving looks were exchanged until the entire room was beginning to tire of the sweetness.

"Y'all gotta forgive us, we're just so in love we can't help ourselves from showin' it. We don't have us a lot of friends, not yet. And UNCLE was so kind to me, and Lad has turned away from those awful people he used to work for. We wanted people who would wish us well and, I'm all kinds of sorry about the way we went about it. Truly I am, but now that y'all are here, can you forgive us?"

The guests were all silent for what seemed like a long time, but finally Mr. Waverly stood to address them all.

"Count Zark, I believe that every person has the potential to change. From what I have heard and witnessed here, and in spite of the unorthodox method by which you gathered us here, I think I can speak for all of my people when I say, congratulations on your marriage and, yes, we forgive you."

The entire assembly raised their glasses at that and saluted the happy couple. Clemency was near tears and Zark, dressed only in a tuxedo and no longer in the garb of his former character, rose up out of his chair and approached Waverly, taking his hand to shake it and whispering something in his ear that made the old man smile.

"Shall we eat? Please, everyone, partake of my table and afterwards we shall have a wedding."

And so they did, passing plates and serving themselves from the abundance before them. Illya filled his plate twice, convinced that no one with evil intentions would feed his victims so well. He decided to forgive Zark and let bygones be bygones.

Napoleon marveled at the couple, the transformation of Zark and the sheer bliss he saw on Clemency's face. So this was what love looked like…

After dinner the group assembled themselves in the hotel lobby where the Christmas decorations and lights created something like an enchanted forest. Waverly would give the bride away and perform the wedding, something he was able to do within his position in UNCLE. If he should ever write a memoir, this was definitely going in it.

The night turned into dawn, and Christmas day was fully upon them. After Zark and Clemency said their vows and thanked everyone for their participation, cars arrived to take them each to whatever destination was needed. Napoleon decided to ride with Amy and Angelique, both women having tempered their initial dislike of each other after several glasses of wine and the general mood of forgiveness and love.

Illya still had the car and so asked April if she might prefer to ride with him, which she accepted readily. Mark had struck up a conversation with the other British guest, Terry Clark. They got on so well that Mark rode in Terry's car, enjoying the backseat of the limousine and eventually the entire day.

Mr. Waverly invited Lisa to go with him to his family's Christmas celebrations. Her plans for the day had been to dine alone, so she was grateful for the change.

George and Del rode back together, each of them parting ways in the city and heading to their respective family gatherings.

As for the happy couple, they were going back to Zark's home in the little country of his birth, Ladislovia. You see, Count Zark was truly a count and held lands and title in the principality. Clemency was now the Countess Clemency, and would live in the fully renovated and modernized castle of her dreams.

It would be, for all involved, the most unusual Christmas they would ever experience, and perhaps the most rewarding. Someone who had once dealt in the darkness of THRUSH's empire was now a redeemed and reformed man who would serve his own people, for their benefit and not only his own.

The night had turned into a day bright with promise, so that each one was able to say confidently to the others, have yourself a merry little Christmas…

And so they did.

Merry Christmas!


End file.
